Mirror, Mirror
by Wraithfodder
Summary: A missing scene from the second season episode Conversion. Sheppard contemplates his future as his body and mind succumb to the iratus bug retrovirus 3 parts
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: **Mirror, Mirror**  
AUTHOR: Wraithfodder  
RATING: T  
CATEGORY: Drama, heavy-duty angst  
SPOILERS: Massive spoilers for season two episode Conversion. 

_Copyright Disclaimer_: The _Stargate Atlantis _characters, as presented on the series, belong to MGM, Sci Fi, and other registered copyright holders. No copyright infringement is meant or intended by the writing and posting of this material. I'm just borrowing the characters and the universe for a piece of non-profit 'fan fiction' and will return in one piece (well, usually). However, all original characters and story material are copyright to author. Please do not repost this fiction, in whole or in part, anywhere, without expression written permission of the author.

**SUMMARY: A missing scene from "Conversion." Sheppard contemplates his future as his body and mind succumb to the iratus bug retrovirus.**.

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**Mirror, Mirror**

**PART ONE**

He ran a hand slowly down his chest, staring into the stark reflection of the bathroom mirror as his digits passed over the unfamiliar, gray surface that had once been his skin, until they touched normal flesh at the top of his belly. The retrovirus' malevolent effect was spreading quicker as each hour passed. At first it had been a spot on his arm, a weird bump with two little dots that looked oddly like tiny eyes.

Colonel John Sheppard could deal with the bizarre blemish, the gray scaliness that was infusing insidiously across his body: it had been watching his eyes mutate that had sent a chill through his very soul. He noticed the flecks of a gold an hour ago, not long after he and Carson had talked in the infirmary, not long after he'd driven his fist into the glass wall partition of Elizabeth's office.

He'd lost his temper at being denied what he'd felt was his right: to accompany his team on the mission to retrieve the iratus bug eggs. He'd sliced his hand as it impacted on the hard glass, but he hadn't noticed the gash until he'd headed back toward the infirmary. The guard followed him closely, no doubt tense and prepared to shoot him if necessary.

By the time he got to Carson, the wound had healed, and the lights in the infirmary had seemed brighter than normal. While Carson withdrew yet another blood sample from his arm – his good arm, as yet untouched by the creeping change – he'd studied the infirmary carefully from a strategist's point of view: the entrances and exits, the fragile equipment scattered all around. He'd stared at the guard until the man shifted uneasily on his feet, and then suggested to Carson that he stay in his room instead.

"All you're doing is taking from me," he'd pointed out bluntly. "Maybe this retrovirus won't kill me. It will be blood loss."

Beckett had frowned deeply at that remark, eyes reflecting a pain, not of being insulted but that he couldn't help; that everything he was doing was failing. He'd grudgingly agreed with the confinement, cautioning Sheppard that he would have regular visitors for blood draws and inhibitor injections.

"Fine," Sheppard had nearly spat out. Out of the corner of his eye he'd caught the hasty glance of one of the nurses: the petite blonde who'd always had a smile for him when he was a patient or he was visiting someone else. That smile was gone now, replaced by … fear. He knew it. She didn't show it, but he could sense it.

People were beginning to fear him. He stared at his mutated hand - the fingernails nearly black and as hard as carbon steel.

Fear. He was becoming a monster.

And the mirror now reflected back that monster. The gold specks had overtaken one eye, turning into streaks that all but blotted out the hazel that he'd seen virtually all his life. The elliptical pupil reminded him of the calculating stare of a poisonous snake.

As Beckett promised, someone came by regularly to check on him. He didn't care if they took more blood. The idea of passing out from blood loss or maybe even dying from it was becoming perversely appealing. He inanely theorized that the more human blood they took from him, the more the retrovirus took over.

Eerie eyes stared back at him from the reflection, with the flecks increasing in his left eye. Weren't eyes supposed to be the window to one's soul? If so, what did this mean for him? Was his soul half-gone already and when the other eye mutated, that would be it?

The inhibitor was being administered more frequently now. He'd become accustomed to the dark pain that rolled frequently across his head from its effects, like a threatening storm cloud. He could deal with it because the drug kept him lucid, kept the terrible darkness at bay, at least for the moment.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall… who's the most dangerous one of all?" Sheppard abruptly rammed a fist into his image, shattering the reflective surface into a myriad of sharp fragments that scattered noisily about his feet. He stared at the drab wall behind the mirror, the lack of his reflection, of how quickly he'd eradicated it. At how quickly the retrovirus was eradicating _him_.

His distorted image glittered back to him from the scattered fragments. He bent down and grabbed a large jagged shard, then squeezed his hand tightly around it. Pain permeated his hand but it was oddly tolerable, unlike the brief spurts of pain that lanced through him periodically, evidence of the retrovirus' increasing spread. Blood began to leak out slowly from between his fingers. He opened his hand, letting the wet fragment fall to the floor, breaking once more. Crimson liquid dripped from the deep cut that scored across his palm and several fingers. He stared mutely at the wounds, watching as over a period of not less than two minutes, the wounds sealed up as if they'd never existed.

He'd seen that once before. On the Wraith keeper he'd shot through the hand as she had been sucking the very life out of Colonel Sumner back on that hive ship. A bloody ragged hole one minute, smooth skin the next.

He rinsed the sticky blood off his hand. It wasn't that he cared about it, but he didn't want the next doctor to see it, to speculate that the violence was escalating. That thought might make them decide to lock him up in the Ancient holding cell deep within the bowels of Atlantis, or strap him down like a wild animal. If were put in that cell, he'd never get out. He knew that without a doubt.

He paced around his quarters, staring bleakly at the various remnants of his past life. As each minute passed, the possibility of a reprieve from a hellish new existence seemed further away, a dream that if he grasped at it, would slip like smoke through his fingers. He waved his hand over the light sensor, plunging the room into a twilight state of shades of blue and black. Even in the dark, he could still see as well as before. Was the creature he was turning into a nocturnal dweller? Besides losing his humanity, would he even lose the joy of the warmth of daylight, consigned forever to skulk around in the dark?

The guitar was still lying against the wall where he'd put after bringing it back from Earth. He'd barely had time to play it, and now… it would join the body board, something else he'd planned on using. He had some time off coming. He'd thought about cajoling Elizabeth into letting him borrow a jumper, go to the mainland, find some great waves and have a fun weekend at the beach. Would he ever like the beach again? Didn't those damn iratus bugs have an allergy to salt water?

He tore his thoughts away from the taunting memories of what might have been, ripped his gaze away from the bathroom and the unseen shards of sharp mirror that he knew lay on the floor.

He sat down on the bed, staring at the photo on his bedside table. At least he didn't have any family for Elizabeth to inform of his fate.

Dr. Bristol arrived, a small medkit gripped firmly in his hand. Sheppard knew it contained a syringe to draw blood, another syringe with inhibitor, a rubber band to cuff his arm, and an alcohol swab. It was so repetitious now that he could do it himself, in his sleep.

Beckett had jaunted off to Wraith bug world, going spelunking for bug eggs. Wasn't that was people who went into caves did? Spelunk? Weird word. He was surprised that Rodney had gone along. He didn't know why, just that the thought of the scientist willingly walking into a nest of potentially lethal iratus bugs – he just couldn't see it. Two days ago Sheppard would _never_ have contemplated going anywhere near even _one_ of those damned bugs; now, he'd risk walking into a nest of them. The worst they could do was kill him.

He prayed that the mission would be successful. If it wasn't, he didn't know what he'd do.

Bristol offered a wan smile as he placed the small vial of blood in the medkit case, saying that he'd be back soon. Sheppard didn't acknowledge the man's departure. The wall was a more pleasant companion to stare at it. Bristol excused himself, and Sheppard knew he'd back in an hour, if not sooner depending on the test results. What did it matter if his manners were deteriorating, or if Bristol thought he might be getting depressed? Being depressed was the least depressing thought in his mind.

He heard the guard leave, and then shut the door behind him. The doctors brought the guard in with them now since his eye had changed. Safety in numbers. Safety with a gun.

_To Be Continued_

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	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: **Mirror, Mirror**  
AUTHOR: Wraithfodder  
RATING: T  
CATEGORY: Drama, heavy-duty angst  
SPOILERS: Massive spoilers for season two episode Conversion.  
_Copyright Disclaimer_: See part 1 

**SUMMARY: A missing scene from "Conversion." Sheppard contemplates his future as his body and mind succumb to the iratus bug retrovirus.**.

* * *

**Mirror, Mirror**

**PART TWO**

It wasn't long before the door quietly slid open again, but he was sort of surprised to hear Elizabeth asking how he was doing. "My body's mutating into a bug," he replied sharply.

He could feel an anger rising in him, but he had to stomp it down, fearing that he might physically act on it. It was becoming more difficult to contain his urge to strike out. He kept his face to the side, shadowed in the comforting darkness. He wasn't vain, but even without the mirror to look in anymore, he could feel the grayness creeping onto his face from his neck. Sometimes it was a spiky, crawling feeling when he turned his head and felt the tug of new alien skin.

She filled him in on the progress of the mission, her voice exuding a positive attitude that he knew she didn't feel at all. He wanted to clench his fists into balls and pound something at the impotence he felt in being able to do nothing. Instead, he focused on the situation, demanding more security. Yet she kept talking, as if this was something that could be cured with a pill or a shot, as if it wasn't that bad. He turned his head, inwardly cringing, but at the same time not caring, about the shock on her face and in her voice. He had to give her some credit. She hadn't seen him since he'd punched out her wall; she was holding up well, considering that he now looked some hideous freak. But as he spoke, keeping his voice as level as possible, it seemed that she didn't want to increase the guards, as if in doing so, it would only confirm their worst fears.

Didn't she _get_ it? He shot to his feet, putting himself almost in her face. "I'm not safe to be around anymore," he'd ground out heatedly and she'd recoiled. He all but threw her out, but he caught her tremulous voice, ordering for a doubling of the guard. For a brief moment, he savored the silence and solitude as he sat back down on his bed. The door shut with a quiet snick, leaving him alone with his increasingly dark thoughts.

Time passed. It was meaningless now. As each minute laboriously crawled by, he could literally feel himself changing more and more. No, it wasn't like he'd told Beckett. This wasn't like Ford's situation. Ford was – he didn't know where the young lieutenant was, if he were alive or dead – but Ford had still been Ford when he'd last seen him – before the Wraith beam had sucked him up into the night sky. He'd still had that bizarrely distorted eye, and the jumpy personality that McKay had once called 'schizophrenically homicidal,' but he was _still_ Ford. He was still human despite the changes the Wraith had caused in his body from the overdose of … whatever. The memory of what had caused Ford's transformation was elusive, as if his past were becoming pointless.

Sheppard held out both of his hands before him. They were now mutated to a deep shade of gray. A heavy layer of something hard yet flexible was forming over the length of his fingers, jutting out over his knuckles, like a horn on some beetle. He couldn't peel it off, couldn't feel it. Was it an alien bug's version of protection against its prey?

He paced the room, ignoring his surroundings, all except the walls that trapped him. He stopped and lifted his black shirt. The gray was across his entire torso now. For all he knew, it went below the belt down to his toes. A part of his mind wondered if he'd actually turn into a bug, or would he end up like Ellia: a murderously insane being covered with that gun metal blue, hard flinty skin? He'd felt that slick, cold layer when she'd attacked him and he'd fought back for his very life. It had shocked him, but not as much as the pain when she'd tried to feed off him. If Ronon hadn't arrived when he had, he'd be dead.

Maybe it would have been better if Ronon hadn't arrived at all.

Sheppard stared at his distorted reflection in a picture on the wall. A pair of unfeeling reptilian-like eyes stared back at him, mocking him. Tiny protuberances were visible along each side of his neck. He felt them. They were hard and spiny. They didn't belong on a human being. Angry, terrified, he ripped the photo off the wall and threw it across the room.

He was losing it. He knew it. He didn't deal well with captivity. He smashed his hand into a wall, then felt it: something odd against his palm. He pressed his palm flat against the wall and felt a weird suction feeling. A strangled laugh escaped his lips as he placed his other hand against the wall in the same manner and pulled up. A second later, his head touched the ceiling.

Sheppard felt a surge of unbridled power shoot through his limbs as he experimented with his newfound ability. He skittered across the ceiling like an insect, the strength that had been developing in him ever since he'd been infected, holding him in place. He'd never seen a room from exactly that vantage point before. It was sort of like flying, but more so, his eyes focused on the floor, on the photo he had tossed in anger. He studied it like a spider studied its prey.

The very act should have scared the living shit out of him: it was undeniable proof that he was no longer human – that the retrovirus had won. The fear of his inexorable change was there, but it too was losing ground to the urges of the new unearthly creature into which he was evolving.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Time was a worthless concept except for the one thought that he continued to fiercely hold on to: would his team return in time to save him? He had to focus hard, deliberately forcing down thoughts of fleeing his prison or else he knew all would be lost.

The door to his room opened. Elizabeth entered – slowly, cautiously – calling out for him. He studied her, listening to her diplomatic entreaties that he come out from hiding. She knew he was hiding. Knew he hated what he was becoming and hated for anyone to see him like that, but more than that, having people see him lose control.

It was so simple to do, it was almost … instinctual. He let go, landing feet first directly behind her. She seemed startled at his sudden presence. She might have been more than startled had she turned a split second earlier. Yet she didn't flinch at his more radically altered appearance; maybe the doctors were keeping her apprised of his transformation.

But he hadn't been totally prepared for her admission that the team had failed in their mission. The nest was too heavily protected by the iratus bugs. Yet without the bugs, without the therapy, he stood no chance in hell of surviving, at least not as John Sheppard. She had to send the team out again, he insisted; yet she refused to do it.

She was consigning him to a fate worth than death. "If you won't, then kill me now." It wasn't a question, but a demand, tersely laid out in as graphic a description as possible.

Yet again she refused his request, and he could feel the anger flaring once more, simmering violently beneath the surface, wanting desperately to break free.

"Then try again," he urged, forcing control into his demand.

She steeled her eyes, and in that one solitary action, she denied him the reprieve he so desperately sought. Fury overtook him and he acted. He grabbed her by the neck, pushing her until her body collided painfully against the wall.

Pinned helplessly to the wall, Elizabeth cried out that Walker and Stevens had died in that abortive mission. Even when his hand squeezed against her throat, she maintained that she wouldn't sacrifice any more lives. It took a moment for that horrific logic to pierce his mind, past the aggression that sought to engulf him. People were dying in a vain attempt to save him. He was past saving, wasn't he? He could see it in her eyes.

He could break her neck as easily as he could snap a toothpick between his fingers.

Her eyes held defiance, but also terror. A flash of memory rose unbidden in his thoughts. Another set of eyes that sparked with apprehension and fear, a body pressed firmly to a wall, an exercise stick held firmly up to Teyla's throat.

Dead man walking. He knew he couldn't face becoming what Ellia had become, because he would eventually do what she had done - kill those who meant something to him. He was a danger, a risk. If they didn't kill him, they'd contain him. Lock him away like some… specimen, trying to fix him. He knew now, deep down inside that if he passed a certain point, there would be no salvation: just a keening insanity that would never leave him as long as he took a breath.

Death was the only option.

His death - before he took another's life.

_To be continued..._

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	3. Chapter 3

TITLE: **Mirror, Mirror**  
AUTHOR: Wraithfodder  
RATING: T  
CATEGORY: Drama, heavy-duty angst  
SPOILERS: Massive spoilers for season two episode Conversion.  
_Copyright Disclaimer_: See part one. 

**SUMMARY: A missing scene from "Conversion." Sheppard contemplates his future as his body and mind succumb to the iratus bug retrovirus.**.

* * *

**Mirror, Mirror**

**PART THREE**

He released his grip from Elizabeth's neck. He heard her body strike the floor – a dull thud - but she was no longer his concern. The guards outside his door were pitifully ill prepared for his assault. Both men were on the floor within seconds of his escape. He'd been wrong. Doubling the guard hadn't been the answer. Quadrupled, with P-90s - and itchy trigger fingers - would have been preferred.

He progressed through Atlantis' corridors, his destination undetermined. He threw somebody out of a transporter. He'd never met the man before. A scientist, his brain fleetingly registered. White lab coat. Didn't care. He felt no urge to feed – at least not yet. He hoped that it would be over before he progressed that far.

He needed to get away from people, away from killing anyone. He knew that Weir would send people after him. Knew Caldwell was still on base - and that he would eliminate a security risk.

It didn't take long to make his way down to an unpopulated section of the city. Areas only recently touched by exploration due to the ZPM's increased power.

Soon he could sense his former friends pursuing him, hear their movements through the dark, artificial halls. Some pass by, unaware of his close presence, but he can hide in the dark, above them.

Another group was coming his way. Part of him mind tells him to stop, to confront the armed soldiers hunting him down: to let them finish him off. Yet something else more primordial surges through his mind like a powerful intoxicant: the instinct to survive. So he crawls up the wall, until a bright beam centers on him. He hears the cries below and skitters quickly up into the uncompromising darkness of the cathedral-height ceiling. Below him is a team of armed humans - humans - he'd once been that himself, but his humanity was leaving him, like sand torn away by the constant pounding of surging waves.

He drops from the ceiling, in a fall that would have easily killed him just a day ago. The two soldiers were easily taken out with a blow. He barely felt the impact against his arms, and the three Wraith stunner bolts from the remaining men leave nothing more than an itching sting across his torso.

Preservation takes over and he realizes he has to defend himself. With a single leap, he crosses a distance he once would have cried in ecstasy to achieve without a machine under his control, and his flight ends quickly, as does the conscious awareness of the two men he strikes down.

The danger is now gone and he starts to flee again, up the stairs but to where, he's not sure, until a voice calls out, stopping him. His mind registers the source: Teyla. He turns.

Part of his mind reacts rationally to her presence, to a distant desire that she would help end his existence. He proceeds down the steps, but she warns him not to advance any further. Fragments of memories of a friendship flicker dimly amongst his dark thoughts, of why she seems so hesitant to shoot him, but she has to do it. Otherwise, it is she who might die.

He wants to live yet he wants to die. He wants this agony to end, but not by her hand, yet… he approaches another step and she shoots, and then the burst of bullets spark away under his feet, and the overwhelming instinct to survive blots out all other thoughts, and he runs up the stairs, down a corridor.

He runs until blackness explodes into his very being.

**PART FOUR**

His head feels like it's going to explode. Pain caresses each nerve ending in its sadistic grip. His mind fleetingly registers being immobilized at both his wrists and ankles. Restraints. He'd lost control.

His eyes shoot open.

He was in hell: a never-ending hell of pain and imminent insanity.

He barely hears Beckett telling him that the headache is from the inhibitors, the drug that keeps his humanity from being totally subverted by his new being, that of a predator.

Elizabeth is standing there, looking down at him with concern etched in her tired face. The light bothers his eyes but worse, there's something he needs to ask her, but he can't remember…. just a dark room, hazy with the taint of violence and fear.

He licks his lips, asking the question to which he is terrified to hear the answer. "Did I hurt anyone?"

**THE END**

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**Author's Note: Hope everyone enjoyed this little slice of Sheppard's hellish experience ;)**

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